18 Clues

On our computer, my side of the Internet is not working, and hasn't been for several months. I can pretty much trace back our computer troubles to when I downloaded Blurb and pretty much opened the porn portal to hell in my computer. Granted, they may not be related, but free software is often free because they load a bunch of other spyware stuff on your computer at the same time so they can open ads for things you REALLY WANT.

But I digress.

I started this long and pointless story merely to explain that I have been using Plantboy's side of the computer. Not being the discerning news reader that I am (ha ha), he has homepage set to MSN which basically considers Hot Celebrity Gossip to be "the news." I'd like to say that I never click on their stupid headlines, but I surprise myself by acting human sometimes.

There was one today called, "18 Clues He's Still Crazy About You." Feeling like I'm part of a normal, stable relationship made me, of course, want to see how Plantboy and I stack up against other couples who think they've got it figured out. It is a competition after all. If nothing else, I figured the list might be some snarky fun. As it turns out, the list was neither interesting, universal or even that funny. It reinforced to me that just because you CAN publish anything on the web, it doesn't mean you SHOULD. (Blogging is a perfect example of this.)

What probably bothered me the most about the list, however, is the assumption that men are pretty much useless lumps who occasionally do something nice. Take numbers 8 and 9 for example, " He doesn't try to guess what to get you for your birthday; he asks your best friend," and "he is incapable of putting dishes in the dishwasher; he has, however learned to stack them in the sink." This kind of thing makes me crazy. Lots of men are good at buying gifts--Plantboy pays better attention to needs and wants than I ever do.* As for the second, it is just so lame. How is it a sign of love that significant other won't load the dishwasher? It is a bit like saying "He still hasn't learned to brush, but oh, boy, does he know how to floss."

Could I come up with 18 highly entertaining or useful evidences "he's still crazy about you" on my own? Probably not. After all, I'm not writing for the very literary Good Housekeeping, but I thought it might be fun if we did this together. I'll put a few here, and you each add one or two of your own in the comment section. Don't have a current beau? No problem. Just put down your ultimate romantic fantasy. Our composite man will make Mr. Darcy look like a villian.

1. After being gone all afternoon and into the evening, you come home to kids fed, bathed and tucked in. When you give hubby nothing more than a kiss for all this effort he says, without a trace of irony, "I'm so lucky."

2. When you sit down to tackle the mountain of clean laundry that has reached a critical mass over the course of three days and 7 loads, he sits down next to you to help without being asked and even consents to watch the show you picked.

3. After a rather long and stressful week, he lays his head on your shoulder and says, "When are we going to get a date?"

4. He honestly thinks the braids are cute and even says, "Weren't you the centerfold in last month's REI catalog?"

5. When you are at Costco he walks you past the black Tahitian pearls and asks you which ones you like best, even if you are too impatient or practical to play along.

All right, all right, and now I see my list is really no better. I guess I just like it because it is my own and doesn't give my man any backhanded compliments. (GH's #5: He tried — unsuccessfully, but he tried — to clean the rust ring his shaving-cream can left on the sink.) Still, it is still February for another week and a bit, so bring on the love.

*Which reminds me; when cleaning the garage yesterday I found an unopened Nerf gun of the same type I gave nearly everyone for Christmas. Now I'm wondering--did I buy an extra? Forget to give one? Miscount? Anyway, if I had your name for Christmas you were probably supposed to get a Nerf gun. If you didn't, I'm sorry: you won't get it now either. It has entered the growing arsenal of weapons here at our house and I doubt it will ever be liberated.

Easter Isn't For Two Months, People!

I was all set to post this morning about the luscious steak, roasted yams, asparagus with almondine sauce, chocolate-dipped strawberries and bruschetta I served for Valentine's Day dinner. Or at least about the wonderful day we spent just an hour north of Crater Lake snowshoeing, relaxing and snowball fighting in the mountains for President's Day. Or about speaking too soon about not having any illness since before Thanksgiving and waking up to a coughing baby several times last night. Or about how (most of) my letter was actually published.
But, alas, more pressing matters occupy my thoughts now.

I was at the grocery store very early this morning, thinking how grateful I was that the only Valentine's Day paraphernalia remaining are four day-old brownie bites that look extremely disgusting, and how I might actually be able to stay away from the chocolate now that the New and Improved holiday season is over. (You haven't heard of this holiday? It is called Hallothankschrisnewval Day. What it celebrates, apparently, is copious amounts of festively wrapped chocolate and special edition Hershey Kisses and the gaining of 10 pounds. )

And then I saw them.

Box after purple box filled with "big" bags of Cadbury Mini Eggs. "Big" must be Cadbury's subliminal marketing campaign this year. The bag, in fact, appears to be half the size of last year's and costs at least a dollar more. I walked past the display three times, repeating to myself, "Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it." You see, if I get them then I will eat all of them. Plantboy doesn't like them (I know, I know he's hardly human); and the kids, well, it doesn't seem right to share with them when they honestly believe the Mini Eggs are just funny shaped M & M's.

And then, oh then, I saw the tiny bag. $.52. I picked it up--dare I say reverently? It was so light; what are they, a nickel apiece? I stared into my cart full of fruits and vegetables and whole wheat English muffins and low-fat yogurt and two kinds of beans and skim milk and uber-lean meat and I knew I had to have them. I threw the little bag on the top of the righteous groceries and practically ran to the checkout, as if I had stolen something, forgetting the remaining three items on my list in my haste to be away.

As I bagged my groceries the tempting purple pouch came closer and closer. "Just bag it with the rest of the groceries," I told myself. I continued repeating such until I slipped it into the side pocket of my purse. I had to; the well-behaved purchases didn't seem to want the dangerously tempting Mini Eggs anywhere near them.

I loaded the car and sat down, staring at the purse telling myself, "It isn't even seven in the morning yet; it is really not the time for chocolate." And I swear I heard a seductive whisper from the depths of my innocent-looking bag, "Oh, STM, it's always time for chocolate. Especially this chocolate."

Just one, or maybe two then. Three is a nice round number; no, wait, FIVE is better.

Half the bag was eaten before I made it out of the parking lot. I folded the top over carefully, vowing to save the rest of the chocolaty goodness for later. . .

Half a mile up the road is later. It is. And it was really such a tiny bag.

I am so going to look like the Easter bunny in two months. I mean, except I won't be completely covered in hair or have really big ears.

Anticipation and Memory

There was a man who taught English at my high school named Thomas Moore. Really. And though he was not British, he never corrected any student who called him Sir Thomas. In fact, I think he rather liked it, and it may not even be too out of line to say he encouraged such address. There was an air of mystery about Sir Thomas as well, though over time enough details surfaced to make his life the envy of any small town person aspiring for romance. He graduated from BYU at age 20, having been something of a wunderkind. He met his wife there, and though he was a couple of years younger than she, he fell madly in love at first sight: he was even able to tell you down to the handbag what she was wearing when they first met.

She was an Eccles. If you are from (way) Northern Utah, this will mean something. If not, think "Huntsman" or "Marriot" and you are getting in the ballpark of the money this family has and the number of buildings sporting their name. She was loaded. They bought an old mansion in one of the very few aging-gracefully neighborhoods in Ogden and spent tens of thousands in restoring it. But not perfect restoration: he once spoke with great vehemence about berating a contractor for trying to fix a squeaky stair railing. "I bought this house because of that squeak!" Only Sir Thomas could say such a thing and make it sound noble, as if he alone was battling callous modernization. It was rumored that he taught at our school as a hobby, and that he was not actually paid.

Besides the house in Ogden, there was a flat in London. Every year, for several years, he had taken a student or two with his family for two weeks in the winter. These blessed students were hand-selected from his classes and were always the best of the best. My friend's older brother went and Sir Thomas paid for everything. Times changed and Sir Thomas was probably not unaware of the questions of propriety in taking selected students with him. In addition, teaching all AP prep English, he ended up with loads of fantastic students, many of whom wanted to go on the trip. The year I came to high school, he began opening up the trip to anyone who could afford to go. The itinerary was enough to make one drool: museums, 7 trips to the theatre and Windsor Castle. He said that if too many students signed up his flat would be too small, and so students would stay in a variety of apartments around Kensington station. These other flats were owned by Sir Thomas' friends, one of whom was the CEO of Payless Shoes.

I was not in Thomas Moore's class. I had The Rat. (The only place she ever went was to the hairdresser each week to have her hair teased into a modified beehive in which she usually lost a pencil or two. Tuesday was her appointment and by Monday she always looked a little bit disheveled.) My best friend, however, was in Sir Thomas' class and we poured longingly over the trip information. It was agreed--we would approach our parents and she would tell her mother that I could go if she could; I would tell my parents that she could go if I could.

Remarkably, beyond any expectation my life to that point had given me, my parents said yes. And so did her mother.

Then began many long months of anticipation. We wrote at least three notes a day to one another, trading them between classes at our adjoining lockers. Kate was a writer and her notes were wonderful. I still have them saved in a decorated shoebox somewhere, unwilling to throw out the evidence and documentation of what was easily the most important friendship of my teenage years. But in the all the voluminous correspondence passed over the years, there is only ONE line from ONE note that I memorized. Less than a month before our departure for England, she paraphrased a discussion from Sir Thomas' class thus, "The memories and anticipation of summer vacation are better than the holiday itself."

The memorable things in our life tend to be long looked forward to, but the event themselves are short-lived--a concert, a first date with someone special, seeing a convert baptised, holidays, vacations, birth, a wedding day, for example. But how many hours of enjoyment come from re-telling the stories of these events? How many lessons are learned as we walk away from, digest and assimilate our experience? And how many lives are shaped by the perception of what happened in the past, rather than what actually happened?

Anticipation gives us something to look forward to. It helps make the mundane tasks of day to day seem a little bit more bearable; and, perhaps, a little bit more meaningful. Memory gives us something to hang our lives on. It gives us "June roses in the December of our lives."

Plantboy and I will be married ten years in June and we have only taken an anniversary trip once. (For our 5th anniversary, thanks to Forecast Calls For Rain and husband.) Nearly two years ago, we vowed that whatever happened and however we had to make it work, we would do something big this year.

And we are.

Though our anniversary is in June, the best time for us to get babysitting for several days is in April. The best place for us to get babysitting for several days is in Utah. So to Utah in April it is, but Plantboy and I are going to go places neither of us have been for years and destinations we've never been together. We are going to spend several days in southern Utah hitting as many national parks as we can. We will do a combination of camping and staying in bed and breakfasts. We will hike and whatever else strikes us as interesting. (I'm going to really strive to be spontaneous, outside of the advance bookings that are necessary.) Mostly we will enjoy the deep quiet that comes in wide open spaces where there are no kids begging to have their every need met. I think I'm looking most forward to Capitol Reef, which seems to be in the middle of nowhere and there is nary a picture with a living soul in it.

I know that to many of you, such a vacation, even sans kids, seems more like a punishment than a getaway. But you can have your cruises and your outlet malls and your airports and your theme parks. . . give me a tank full of gas, a sleeping bag and, mostly, solitude, then I can find my bliss. The anticipation is high. I hope the memories will sustain us through the next ten years.

Since my friend's note all those years ago, I have found the following quote by Flaubert, "Pleasure is found first in anticipation, later in memory." I wonder if perhaps that was the springboard for the discussion in Sir Thomas' class? But I think I like Kate's way of saying it best--that the anticipation and memory are actually better than the events themselves. In the end, we only have the sum total of what we have learned from our experiences with which to leave this life. What are you looking forward to this year? Or even better, what is your favorite memory from years past?

Hey, It's Something, Right?

In January, The New Yorker published this piece, titled "Baby Food." It is about breast milk; or, more specifically, the history of breast feeding in the United States. The article is interesting, but near the end she makes a rather pointed critique of our culture too: many places have begun providing almost lavish amenities for working mothers who wish to pump at work, while simultaneously making it more and more difficult for them to actually be HOME with their babies. Her criticism is not levied merely at employeers, however. She is equally dazed and confused by mothers who will take an extra hour's worth of breaks to pump rather than formula feed and spend an extra hour with their babies. She laments, "When did women's rights turn into the right to work?" I couldn't agree more.

I really like this author. Her way of viewing the world is honest and blunt, but with the barest whisper of humor that makes you realize that she doesn't take herself to seriously. Her last few paragraphs read thus,

"Pumps put milk into bottles, even though many of breast-feeding’s benefits to the baby, and all of its social and emotional benefits, come not from the liquid itself but from the smiling and cuddling (stuff that people who aren’t breast-feeding can give babies, too). Breast-feeding involves cradling your baby; pumping involves cupping plastic shields on your breasts and watching your nipples squirt milk down a tube. But this truth isn’t just rarely overstated; it’s rarely stated at all. In 2004, when Playtex débuted a breast pump called the Embrace, no one bothered to point out that something you plug into a wall socket is a far cry from a whisper and a kiss. . .

"It appears no longer within the realm of the imaginable that, instead of running water and a stack of magazines, 'breastfeeding-friendly' could mean making it possible for women and their babies to be together. Some lactation rooms even make a point of banning infants and toddlers, lest mothers smuggle them in for a quick nip. At the University of Minnesota, staff with keys can pump their milk at the Expression Connection, but the sign on the door warns: 'This room is not intended for mothers who need a space to nurse their babies.'

"Pumps can be handy; they’re also a handy way to avoid privately agonizing and publicly unpalatable questions: is it the mother, or her milk, that matters more to the baby? Gadgets are one of the few ways to “promote breast-feeding” while avoiding harder—and divisive and more stubborn—social and economic issues. Is milk medicine? Is suckling love? . . . Medela’s newest model promises [that it]. . . 'works less like a pump and more like a baby.' More like a baby? Holy cow."

After reading her excellent piece, I wrote the following letter to TNY's editor:

Ms. Lepore's article is a fantastic voice of reason in a baby culture gone mad, and will no doubt be raked across the coals if for nothing else than her statement, "When did 'women's rights' turn into the 'right to work'?" I had my first of three babies just over seven years ago. I have worked full time, part time and also stayed home full time. I have nursed, pumped, formula fed, counted days until I could supplement my ravenous boys with mush and told countless lies to pediatricians from Houston to Eugene. I have friends who home school, nurse their children on demand day and night into their third year and think bottles are akin to child abuse; at the opposite end I have friends who would never consider nursing, feel repulsed by the whole exercise and think there is nothing more appalling than a woman nursing in public; not to mention all the women in the middle. And, truthfully, I think that every one of us is just doing the best we can. No modern convenience can ever change the simple fact that parenting is just plain hard (punctuated, of course, by moments of wonderful).

I am young enough that the battle over ERA is a distant echo from my childhood, yet am in the first generation of women to live an entire lifetime in the post-feminist era. To me, the great gift of feminism is that I can choose the kind of life I want to live. It does not mean that because I can have it all that I am less of a woman if I do not want to have it all. It also does not mean that I am free from the consequences of my choices, nor is society at large. In not too many more years, an entire generation of children raised on a steady diet of text messaging, video games, day care and fast food will come of age: I am with Lepore in asserting that all the breast milk in the world, pumped or otherwise, cannot counteract the effects of all else they have been fed.

Sincerely,
Science Teacher Mommy
Oregon

Well, well, STM, that is all very nice, you are thinking. I've written letters to the editor before and they never get published, so I was mostly hoping that Ms. Lepore would see my response. I'm just needy enough to think that all writers are just like me--they MUST have feedback or feel like failures. Then, today, I opened my email to find out that they are actually going to publish my letter in next week's issue. A fact-checker is going to call me tomorrow to confirm a few details.

I know, I know, I could get published in the flippin' newspaper every week if I wanted to, but the letters generally published in TNY come from professionals in their fields with 12 letters after their names and titles before them. To even see my name in print in this magazine pretty much makes my whole day. Or maybe my week.

A Romantic Dinner IN

I have to admit that the best Valentine's Day I ever had was in the third grade. We did the typical class exchange of the paper valentines in the hokey decorated shoeboxes. This was back in the day before chocolate was marketed by the truckloads in garish shades of pink and purple for purchase at the grocery store. When I was in the third grade, if you got a Valentine with a sucker in it then you were awesome. Anyway, a beautiful boy with black hair and tan skin, presented me with a full-size chocolate bar, the little card AND sucker taped to the back. (This boy's name was Rhett--could anything be more luscious?) It wasn't as if he was a secret crush or anything: he was my true love from the first grade until the end of the fourth. At which point I started growing up. He did not, and never did in all the years I knew him. I've sometimes wondered if he ever did.

I mean, honestly, after enjoying a brief sojourn as the Naked Mole Rat of Mrs. McColley's third grade classroom, what could compare?

The years I actually HAD a boyfriend-like person in my life over VD were almost worse because there is some kind of expectation. February 1992 and February 1998 come most prominently to mind. The latter is somehow all mixed up in my head with the only time I have seen Titanic--I am not certain if I actually saw it that night, but there are a couple of weeks that month with such a blur of embarrassing memories that it is all the same.

Plantboy and I have seldom gone out on Valentine's Day. This wall-flower attitude is for a variety of reasons: VD on a weeknight, availability of babysitting on a day when lots of people go out, finances, and a reluctance to make the day into all that big of a deal. Still, I do like to make an effort to acknowledge the day: I usually make a nice supper, decorate the table, give tiny presents at each plate, etc.

Two weeks ago we went to Olive Garden which has a special dish this month they are calling "Four Cheese Stuffed Mezzaluna." I subbed shrimp for chicken. It was very, very good. Then, last Saturday I got a bee in my bonnet to re-create it. I did; and while I am sure that it would be very easy to tell the difference in a taste test, I am not at all certain that mine would lose a head to head contest. My picture isn't quite as pretty; I need to take my food shots on white plates and white linens in the sunlight. Still, the result is divine and your special someone will think this is even better than a big candy bar.

I have no idea what "Mezzaluna" means, so I will give mine its own name:

Ravioli in Sweet Cream Sauce with Basalmic-glazed Pork Chops

Heat 4 Tbsp high quality olive oil on medium high and add about half a head of garlic (I think I used six or eight medium sized cloves), roughly chopped, into the oil. Stir fry the garlic for about a minute and then add three Tbsp of flour. Sir continuously until flour is dissolved and no longer raw, about a minute. Reduce heat to medium-low. Then add 3/4 cream, 3/4 cup chicken broth and 1/3 cup sparkling apple juice. (I used Martinelli's; you have some choices for this third liquid ingredient--plain apple or white grape juice would be great or even the light syrup from a can of pears. I liked Martinelli's because the rest of the bottle is perfect with supper.)

Whisk the sauce together and keep over medium-low heat until bubbles break the surface and it becomes thick, stirring often. Stir in 4 oz. Parmesan cheese (I used the shaky kind, but fresh would be fine too.) Add white pepper to taste, or fresh ground black pepper. Taste and observe. If the sauce is too thick (which cream sauces tend to be) and too sweet, add another 1/4 to 1/2 cup chicken broth; if too thick and not sweet enough, add more apple juice, but only a tablespoon or two at a time. If not thick enough, add more cheese and cream.

Sorry the recipe isn't a little bit more exact--I tend to do a lot of things to taste or based on if they look "right." But what is right to you, may not be to me, you know what I mean?

When sauce is just right, turn it down to low, stirring every couple of minutes while you prepare the rest.

Put half a cup of balsamic vinegar with a teaspoon of sugar into a small saucepan over medium heat. Cook until it has a syrupy texture and coats the back of a spoon. Stir often. This takes about 20 minutes; I didn't give it quite enough time, and so it is a little bit runny on my pork chops in the pictures.

Put a pot of water on to boil.

Cook thin pork chops in a large skillet coated with olive oil and a little bit of salt and pepper. When they are browned on both sides they are done. While the pork is cooking, use the other side of the skillet to saute julienne strips of red pepper.

When your water boils, add enough ravioli to serve how many you are cooking for. I used the large ravioli you can buy at Costco, just the cheese variety, though there is a triangular shaped spinach-filled one that would be extremely delicious with this sauce.

Most store-bought ravioli tells you that it is cooked when it floats, so watch it closely. Drain when cooked.

To serve, spoon sauce over cooked ravioli and garnish with red peppers and fresh basil ribbons. Serve pork on the side with a generous drizzling of the reduced balsamic vinegar. We had a crusty sourdough baguette that was perfect for mopping up left over sauce and vinegar.

For dessert, I made custard-sized chocolate lava cakes. Here is the recipe:

5 ounces semi or bittersweet chocolate (I used bittersweet baking bar)

6 TBSP butter

4 eggs

1/2 cup + 2 TBSP sugar

1/2 cup + 2 TBSP flour

Heat oven to 350 degrees and grease 4 custard cups (or a LARGE muffin pan). Melt butter and chocolate in a double boiler, stirring frequently, until smooth. Beat eggs, sugar and flour together. Add butter/chocolate mixture to the egg mixture slowly while stirring. Bake at 350 for 12 minutes. Don't use a tester, the inside should be gooey. Serve hot.

Serve either with ganache (super rich) or cream (really rich). For ganache, warm 1/2 cup of heavy cream until steam rises. Turn off heat, add six ounces semi-sweet chocolate chips and stir until creamy and thick. The cream should be sweetened, but not beaten--it just melts when it touches the cake.

Turn out each cake on a plate on either a bed of cream or ganache. Garnish generously with strawberries or raspberries.

I have no idea what to tell you to do about the dishes; I know that is really the best part of going out. Maybe Significant Other will be so impressed that he will volunteer? After all, there are few things more attractive than a man doing housework. . . Happy Valentine's Day.

Not To Be Judgmental or Anything . . .

You know that when you hear someone say the above (or any variation of it), what follows is not going to really be a credit to either the speaker, listener or the subject. I've been quite self-aware, for some time, of my tendency to make snap judgments. I'm better at curbing this impulse now than I was, say, age 17, but it is still ridiculous how far I have to go with this particular weakness. Blogging has actually helped--because I write so much of what I think for others to see now, I believe I'm getting more careful about what I think in the first place.

Today.I.Just.Can't.Help.Myself.

Last week I read in the paper about octuplets born alive to a woman in California--seven were expected, but eight were born. The babies were quite early and a couple of them are extremely small, but so far all have survived. The paper was brief on details about the mother, apparently at her request. After I read the story, I felt very grateful that I was not in a position to have to make a decision about fertility drugs--either taking them or the many decisions that continue to follow the consequences of taking them. I also felt a measure of respect for this mother. Early in her pregnancy, terminating some of the babies had been presented to her as a desireable option, but she just didn't feel right about it. Also, in not disclosing her name I viewed her as a much more careful and concerned mother than, say, the John and Kate Plus 8 Harpie. Or maybe I should say Queen Harpie.

There was a follow up story today. A story that sickened and disgusted me.

Octo-momma already has six children, all of whom were conceived on fertility drugs. She also has no husband and her mother is pretty much raising the first six. She has a publicity agent who gave a majority of the interview. Every major corporation which usually donates to multiples has been contacted for handouts, but it seems that many of the companies are backing off of this one. There have already been talks with The Learning Channel about a program.

It was at this point that my head exploded. What would they call this show Just Kate plus 14? Or Eight is Enough So Who Wants the Other Six?

The journalist reporting went on to speculate that the hospital stay alone for these 8 preemies will be considerably over a million dollars. Nor could the reporter find any evidence of the woman having worked in the last two years.

Is there a nice, neat, reasonable explanation that paints all involved parties in their right minds? Perhaps. Perhaps she and her hubby were "just" going for number seven, and together had wanted a large family. Perhaps, her doctor had always believed her to be a stable, normal mother. Perhaps her mother was loving having a second chance at parenting and gladly took on all of these little ones. Perhaps Octo-dad freaked out and left only when it turned out his wife was having a litter and decided he just couldn't deal. Perhaps this mother had never even considered a career as a reality show star before submitting her body to a science experiment. Perhaps any number of babies over two necessitates a publicity agent--you know, like how the lactation consultant comes in to most mothers? Perhaps. . . perhaps. . .

Or perhaps SOMEBODY in the chain of "responsible" adults who have perpetrated this nightmare should have been a voice of reason and said, "There is no way a dangerously unbalanced, single woman who is only half a mother to begin with should have any business taking fertility drugs. And if she thinks somebody else should pay for it--either in the form of insurance or government or sponsors or concerned citizens or pro bono babysitting then she just needs to start signing the adoption papers NOW. And not eight sets. Fourteen.

Don't get me wrong, I am not pointing my (admittedly self-righteous) finger at the mother alone. Oh, no. I think there is loads of blame to go around: from the mother who has enabled her idiot daughter with her free daycare, to the deadbeat sperm donor dad, to the DOCTOR, for crying out loud, who agreed to this latest treatment, to the insurance company who very likely approved her round of fertility drugs. AT WHAT POINT DID ALL COMMON SENSE CEASE?

Years ago I had a colleague who had been married for some years; she told me once that she and her husband had no interest in raising children, though she thought it seemed weird sometimes to think about getting old and not having family around. She was not at all religious and tended to view things very scientifically. One day we discussed the brouhaha at the University of Utah (late 90's) over the gay professor and his partner who were suing the state for adoption rights. I was interested in her opinion because I knew that, if anybody could, she would reason through the situation instead of reacting with emotion. She said something I'll never forget, "I think there are a lot of reasons people have children, but it should never be for selfish reasons. For all that those men might make excellent parents, they have made their crusade so public that having a child now is more about the principal of the thing than the thing itself. It is like they haven't stopped to think how hard it will be for a child to be dragged into all of this."

Well said.

As I look at Octo-mom, yes, with a fair amount of distaste, even disgust, I can see plainly that she will be punished by her own choices. She will have to live with the consequences of her folly and selfishness. (And, yes, to do something so dramatic for attention is selfishness no matter how many hundreds of diapers she will change.) I guess there is no need to judge, the natural penalties of her decisions will take care of that, but I feel sick for those kids.

Their lives will be so affected, and therefore their choices limited, by their mother's actions. Their lives will be punctuated by poverty, scrutiny, the side-affects of premature birth, and a mother who clearly places a low priority on what is best for them.

One last thing before anyone reading gets their knickers in a twist: in case you have misunderstood my anger, I have nothing whatever against large families. Though I don't know that I'll have a very large one myself, my dad was the oldest of ten, my mother the oldest girl out of nine kids, and Plantboy is one of nine. (And, I must add, I would be hard-pressed to find a family anywhere that is greater than my hubby's.) One of my favorite readers is the oldest of 21 (or 22, Erma? I forget) . . . . what I am saying here is that I take serious issues with people who are STUPID. Especially when it comes to making their children pay the price for their irresponsibility.

Everybody Loves Pictures

So much to post, so much to post. I'm assuming, of course, that you are interested in whatever random minutiae pops into my head. I would love to post a lengthy response to Nem's blog post from today, but I'm thinking perhaps all has been said and then some. I'm also trying very hard to keep resolution #6. (You forgot? Oh, very well, scroll down to the bottom of the page and I've got them all listed so I can keep reminding myself. They say to post these things on a mirror, but I'm obviously here way more than I am in front of the mirror.) I also must post the recipe I made on Saturday because, I promise, it is guaranteed to get you some Valentine's Day love. I mean seriously, skip the meal out and cook this for your sweetheart instead. I am also thinking about . . .

Well, anyway, I think people mostly just like pictures, so rather than give you a lot of commentary I will just post pictures from our latest nomad adventure. If you have never taken three little kids snowshoeing then you have not really lived. Our day was wonderful in some ways, but the snow was a bit of a disappointment--pretty crusty and the snowshoes, well, the need for them was probably not great. Still, the big boys were troopers and went as far as they possibly could. We snowshoed a short trail to a big waterfall. Plantboy carried the baby down and back; I carried Padawan back up the hill. And in case you are wondering, oh, yeah, it was aerobic.

It is interesting to note here that my kids will not, for some reason look at the camera. Coupled with a slow shutter speed, this makes for some pretty interesting pictures. We tried the above shot five times. They weren't looking at the camera once. The waterfall, thankfully, held still for its photo.

Jedi Master says, "Look away, Mommy, or the camera will steal your soul." Honestly! What part of "Look right here until you are told to look away," is so hard to understand?

After the waterfall hike, we went back to the sledding hill. We tried a bunch of little hills first and then Jedi Master decided it was time to attempt the big hill. Remember, this is "big hill" by Oregon standards. Old Main would take one look at this hill and give such a loud guffaw of derision that it would cause an avalanche. This hill was mostly characterized by the attempts of older sledders to make it exciting. Hence it was much potholed and riddled with frozen jumps. All was going very well with the sledding until Jedi Master said, "I want to go down there." He pointed at a series of bumps that I had gone down while dragging my feet. (I don't crave the big air like I used to.) "Are you sure?" questioned Mommy in her most concerned voice while still trying to understand that boys will be boys.

"Oh yeah. I'm sure."

He was sure until the very last bump. Until then he had been giggling and screaming. But after the last bump caused him to fly into the air, landing his bony little tush on the frozen snow, he decided that the whole day was a bust.

Things looked up considerably after a trip to Dairy Queen.

The last shot here is a picture of the boys in the jammies that Colorado Grandma sent for Christmas. Aren't they cute? Well, okay, only Padawan is smiling, but in eight shots this is the only one in which they are all facing the camera. Look at Padawan's legs. Even mine aren't that white. Poor kid.

Theory of Everything

Between my last post and being assaulted yesterday at Fred Meyer with a mind-numbing display of pink and purple and red hearts, I've been thinking a bit about romantic relationships and why they are so difficult and wonderful at the same time--perhaps more difficult as a single and more wonderful as a married, but neither status is a recipe for bliss or for disaster.

I don't know if you did (or do) this as a single, but my friends and I had a theory for just about everything when it came to dating. In her comment earlier in the week, chrisw asked me to tell the Naked Mole Rat story. After all, it sounds so much more appealing to be the "Hot Chick."

To preface, I've got to tell a little bit about the fabulous chrisw. Though we went to the same high school just a year apart, chrisw and I didn't meet until my third year at college. She was also a biology education major and we began overlapping classes; we also had a lot of student government-type activities in common and ended up really connecting. Chrisw is like the laid-back, hilarious, mellow version of STM. Or maybe I am the uptight, serious, driven version of chrisw? Anyway, chrisw was one of my few friends still left around when I got back from the mish and she saved me from deep lonliness on a number of ocassions. We went through a lot together--the Bleskimo, Shaner, Evolution 587, frizz hair girl, squirrels. . . . you get the picture. As I remember it, the Naked Mole Rat theory didn't orginate with chrisw (correct me if I'm wrong?), but she got it immediately when I said it off-hand one day: another reason to really love her.

Before I knew Chris, I took a basic biology class that had an evolution component for one of the sections. It was pretty basic stuff, but the instructor spent nearly a whole week on the concept of "altruism." You see, scientists have a hard time explaining WHY animals will ever act in anything but their own immediate self interest. (Humans are a little different: we are intelligent enough to have complex social values that bear on our behavior as powerfully as instinct; because animals don't have these values, evolutionary biologists are always looking for genetic reasons to explain behavior, particularly "unselfish" behaviors.) The teacher gave several examples of animal behaviors considered altruistic.

He used the example of the Naked Mole Rat: this hideous and nearly blind creature lives in subterranean niches in Africa. As if being a mole wasn't bad enough, this thing gets its full name from the fact that it is nearly bald and very rat-like. In a large family colony, there is only ONE female who gets to mate. This female, whose hormones are the strongest, effectively blocks the other females from being recognized. To add insult to injury, the other females are compelled to serve the Queen. They take care of the young, wash the Queen and bring her food.

My friend Ryan and I had this class (and several others) together and we were always trying to come up with ways to remember what we had learned. As we'd had several chemistry classes, our mneumonics usually revolved around attraction and relationships. And though Ryan and I were never interested in dating, I always thought the whole studying chemical attractions thing was probably our geeky attempt at flirting. The Naked Mole Rat Queen lesson gave me the giggles for some reason.

I told Ryan that it was not unlike my apartment. One of my roommates was Pocahontas. (I posted about her some time back, though you are unlikely to remember that. She was definitely the "hot chick," but also one of the bet friends I've ever had.) He knew immediately what I was talking about--men sensed Pocahontas' presence from 100 yards. I think every guy who visited our apartment the three years I lived with her, came initially for a chance to see her. It was a bit disconcerting to go places with her and witness the mass-whiplash that happened as men of all ages craned their necks to look. I'm not kidding. I remember starting spring quarter one year and both of us, in different classes, noticed this amazing looking guy sporting a cream-colored sweater. We joked all afternoon how cute he was and who would dare sit by him first. That afternoon, she took the garbage out, met him at the dumpster and had a date before she came back in the house. There was no chance of getting asked out, at least not first, with Pocahontas around.

What Ryan didn't know (or maybe he did) is that any girl who ever lived with her, adjusted to her cycle within a month. She and I lived apart over the summers and if I'd switch tracks with other roommates, it would only last until I was living with Pocahontas again. It was not uncommon for all six of us to start within three hours of one another. My apologies to any men reading here.

Pocahontas, being a fellow science geek, got a real kick out of the analogy and even put up with us calling her The Naked Mole Rat Queen from time to time. If any girl we knew was lucky enough to be having a good dating month, she was dubbed the Queen; though, I must add, it was not too likely with Pocahontas on the market. She got married while I was in the MTC to a wonderful man, and though I was sorry not to be at her wedding, I rejoiced over the marraige, knowing that I might actually get a date when I got home with the Queen out of the way.

Then, for one glorious summer, just before I met Plantboy, my turn came. Chrisw was able to pass the torch and dub ME the Naked Mole Rat Queen. It wasn't all it was cracked up to be: I learned that with great power comes great responsibility.

Other relationship theories came and went during those years:

The Challenge Theory--Compliments of SimpleEasyandQuick and Ryan. This is basically the revolting idea that the hunt is much more fun than the catch, particularly for men. I always hated this, but my observations and few pitiful experiences told me that it was probably true.

Rebel Factor--This was Pocahontas' idea. As much as you wanted to marry the nice boy, there was something infintely appealing about the boy with a wild streak. Particularly if that wild streak manifested itself in some rather harmless way like motorcycle riding or bridge jumping in the middle of the night or living out of your car with nothing but a shotgun and a flannel shirt for a month.

Trade-up--Also SimpleEasyandQuick's idea. This could potentially be called the "string-along" theory because the premise was that you never dumped whomever you were with until you could be reasonable assured that your were trading up.

Red-Hooded Sweatshirt--More of a test than a theory really. My roommates and I thought there was nothing cuter than a guy in a backwards ball cap and I hooded sweatshirt. Especially if it was red. If you couldn't pass the ball cap test, well, then, you were out. Really mature, eh?

Darcy Effect--This is my most recent acquistion. It is important to note that the lovely Elizabeth wanted nothing to do with Darcy when she only saw him as handsome and tall with 10,000 a year. (I'm talking about the book, people, not the 2005 travesty that has Keira Knightly's boy-bosom heaving over mullet-boy from the minute she claps eyes on him.) It is only when she sees that he is basically pledging to give up everything for her--his family connections, his pride, his condescension, that she falls in love with him. In other words, what attracts a woman most to a man is that he is willing, to at least some degree, to be made over by her. Jack Nicholson in "As Good As It Gets," says to Helen Hunt, "You make me want to be a better man." BINGO. Darcy Effect.

So why all of this living in the mid-nineties reminscing today? (It is starting to really scare me how long ago that was.) Well, I think that PP and EQP did get ONE thing right in their blog-that-wishes-it-was-satire-but-doesn't-quite-cut-it. They are posting nearly every day about "mistakes" that women make and relationship issues. What this says is that in the end of it all, there is not a "reason" why people are single: there are as many reasons as there are people who would like to be married.

My first two or even three years of marriage was difficult for me. I loved Plantboy, but I remember thinking sometimes, "People really do this for a lifetime? For eternity?" There were so many new things all the time--job changes, moves, a baby--things that many young couples experience. It took a long time for me to realize that part of my difficulty stemmed from my screwed up relationship theories. All that I thought I learned about men and relationships while dating, didn't translate that well into married life. So many years had been focussed on the chase that I didn't know all that much about what to do once we were standing still.

It was ironic really, because one of the things that most attracted me to Plantboy is that we didn't play mind games on one another. How we felt was always very straightforward. It had been a huge relief for me to find someone so devoid of manipulation and false pretense. But after marriage, so many of my unresolved insecurities (imagine marriage not solving all my problems!) and my overblown belief in the huge differences between men and women threatened to keep me from being truly happy with my partner.

Now, most of my relationship theories have flown the coop. There are no pat answers and easily wrapped up solutions. I find myself instead sometimes looking for parenting theories that will do this! But I like to think I'm a little wiser now. As interesting and even helpful as all such philosophies are, they can never take the place of inspiration, hard work and consistent love.

Because Apparently the Choices Are Tweedle-dum or Tweedle-dee

BEWARE: I HAD TO ADD A LABEL CALLED "RANT" JUST FOR THIS POST.

Yesterday I was reading Nem's blog and came across a link to a blog titled "Why Mormon Girls Stay Single." There were no details, it was just a link thrown out with a request for Nem to look at it a little bit closer and some day in the future share her thoughts. Not knowing anything about the blog, I skimmed a couple of posts, thinking that it was authored by a couple of funny female roommates with a healthy dose of self-deprecation about single, Mormon women. But closer scrutiny told me that it must be a couple of guys writing. Sure enough, post-ers PP and EQP were acronyms for "Peter Priesthood" and "Elder's Quorum President." This should have been my first red flag: all manner of false doctrine might be shared under cover of righteousness and leadership.

After a few fairly informative and funny-ish posts, I looked at their archive and was drawn to the post titled "Hatin' on the Hot Chick." It was not informative, nor even funny-ish. Unless, of course, pure mean-ness is the new funny.

Their gripe is, of course, that women get jealous of the girl who seems to get all the dates. This girl is, of course, the "Hot Chick." (In my apartment we called this girl the "Naked Mole Rat." Which is a very funny story with a definite science geek angle that might need to be told some time.) There is a legitimate point here--women do tend to, often with unexpected results that backfire, undermine one another when it comes to dating. Married women sometime act this way too; it may not be men that are at stake, but women still will attempt to outshine one another in our own imitation at corporate climbing. However, after the initial sentence or two, the Hot Chick post quickly deteriorates into something that caused my gag reflex to work overtime and make me fear for a future when LDS men have bought hook line and sinker into pop culture.

In another post, PP and EQP insist that "all" (since they seem to speak for all) men are looking for women who are independent, assertive and confident. Yet in the above referenced post they make the following thesis statement, "Here's the deal . . . we want to date the hot girl too!" Which seems to negate all else these boys claim to be looking for. But not to worry, the good brethren throw single women everywhere a bone with the best advice I've ever heard. "Make yourself hot." And what is the prize for this Paris Hilton-like descent into babe-dom? "We'll reward your efforts with a nice meal, an occasional movie," (there is even another post that gives advice about what kind of movies and nice, classic girly books to say you are interested in) "and a possible make out." At this point, every single women is probably panting with eagerness and thinking, "Goody!" Forget about emulating any positive role model you've ever met or read about. Heck! Forget about following the Savior's example! It is all about taking "drastic measures to get hot."

But lest we think that there is no hope for girls who are not "hot," let's look at this gemstone paragraph, "Guys never hang around girls because they're 'good friends'. They are just biding their time waiting for an open invitation for some nookie. Give it to them, they will love you more than any 'McDreamy' who's not even wasting his time on you."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It is hard to say on how many levels these three sentences are wrong. When I was a single, at least a pre-mi single, several of my closest friends were guys. There is no way they could have wanted to hang out with me because we had wonderful conversations and hilarious times. I'm fairly convinced that it will come as a shock to every single one of them that what they were really waiting for a was a make-out from my 20 year old self. Remember all those racquetball games, boys? Now I know what you were REALLY up to. It is a wonder that your fabulous wives will even speak to me for the jealousy they must each feel.

What PP and EQP (and probably many single men and too many husbands) seem to be missing is the realization that Hot Chick is just a woman too. And, I'm sorry to say, she might even have more security issues than Regular Chick. In the morning, Hot Chick also has b.o., haltosis and bed head. Hot Chick's gorgeous hair color, luscious skin and lovely feet look a lot less attractive when she is no longer paying the hairdresser, the MaryKay saleslady and the monthly pedicurist herself. She'll turn into a chocolate-loving Harpie every 28 days who dares say the word Tampax in your presence. She will come with student loans, family issues and relationship baggage, as will Regular Chick. Also, if she is really the pure and naive vision of loveliness these brilliant BYU alum no doubt insist on, she will have no more clue about sex than Regular Chick, so you can put THAT fantasy to rest right now. She will put on a minimum of 30 pounds when she is pregnant, but it might be 60 or 70 or . . . you get the picture. That same pregnancy will leave stretch marks on her lovely once-fakey-tanned tummy. Night after sleepless night of nursing babies will cause Hot Chick to put her hair in a ponytail every day, or heaven forbid, cut off that big sexy hair all together. Hot Chick will probably be a lot more likely to insist on the tummy tuck and the boob job after the babies--after all, you have taught her what the cost of your love is.

And no chick, hot or otherwise, will be immune to life's inevitable challenges. Maybe what single Mormon men (and women) need to say when they look at the opposite sex is, "How will this person handle it when we are out of work for six months?" "Will this person be happy with three kids in a two bedroom apartment?" "Will this person crack under the pressure when our children come home with inevitable problems?" "Will this person validate my emotions, even when they are unreasonable, and love me over the rough times?" And married people need to remember their own humanity when trying to scrutinize Partner's faults too closely.

There is another incomprehensibly asinine paragraph in the Hot Chick post, comparing women (and I guess men too, the analogy is a little bit vague) to cars. Basically, don't go looking for a Mercedes Benz when you are a Ford Focus. To this glittering nugget of wisdom I'd like to say that I can probably count on one hand the number of men I would say were anything more than an Edsel before age 25 or 30. You see, PP and EQP, what makes a man attractive to a woman has less to do with money, power or looks (all variations on the "size matters" theme) is COMMITMENT. When a man shows, over time, that he will be there day in and day out even when it is hard, even when life is real and difficult, then it matters a whole lot less how "hot" he was to begin with and is about who is becoming. When a woman knows that a man loves her, really loves her, she will reciprocate in ways even she doesn't know she's capable of: in her eyes you will become the prince of her dreams that comes in the door every night; the Mercedes in the driveway, the lover she snuggles next to as she falls into her dreams each night.

And a man who would give up all of that for "hot?" Well, he really deserves to sleep alone every night. PP and EQP think they have figured out why Mormon women are single? In reality they have exactly pinpointed why Mormon men are: because too many of them would trade their birthright for a mess of pottage.

Their blog has been very instructive, however; it is has given me a great example of what kind of boys NOT to raise.

Just Throw a Casserole At It

The tale I'm going to tell tonight is bizarre and unsettling in the extreme. Early last week, in a nice neighborhood just a mile or so from here, a ten year-old girl, whom I'll call Red, was riding her bike to a friends' house. She and the friend had both auditioned to sing in the school talent show. Since they had both, big surprise to anyone who knows a tweenie girl, sung Taylor Swift's "Our Song" for the audition, the committee decided to have them sing it together. (This is not the bizarre part, though I will admit the thought of said performance is a bit unsettling.) Red was going to the friend's house for practice.

A golden colored sedan was cruising around the neighborhood at the same time--later it would be discovered that the car was stolen and being driven by a 25 year-old homeless man--likely looking for a hapless victim. Seeing Red on her bike, he RAN HER DOWN. Red is a bit of a spitfire and had the presence of mind to jump up and begin running away, despite having just been hit by a car. Before she got far, Psycho was out of the car and dragging her by the hair into the passenger side. Red screamed. And screamed. And the neighbors came.

Before anyone had time to react, Red was pulled into the car and Psycho took off. At this point, three things happened simultaneously: the mother of Red's friend called Red's mother, a second neighbor called 911, and a third neighbor jumped in her car and took off after Psycho.

Red's mother was at the scene just as the police pulled up, feeling her heart ripped out at the sight of a single shoe left behind and Red's bike twisted and wrecked on the side of the road. While a plan was formed and an APB with the car's description was sent to every police officer in the city and the surrounding communities, the chasing neighbor returned. She reported the direction the car had gone, but admitted that Psycho had just been going too fast and she couldn't keep up. She also had forgotten her cell phone and the only way she could relay what she had learned of the route Psycho and Red had taken was to come back.

At some point, Psycho pulled over and had Red alone for a few minutes. That is where it gets a little bit murky, but it seems that Red wasn't going down without a fight and Psycho was concerned about being caught so he took off again. He hadn't gone more than few miles when he ran straight into a strip of tire rippers laid down by the officers on duty in the nearest community in the direction he was headed.

The sedan wrecked in a ditch; Red was rushed to the hospital and treated for a broken arm and given a thorough exam while the prosecutor paced outside, adding up the charges that would be laid at Psycho's feet. Meanwhile, Psycho was treated for some minor injuries at the local jail where Red's mother, quite honestly, hope he rots for eternity. And Red's father? Well, at one point he set out in his truck with a loaded shotgun to bring Red home, so Red's mother is grateful that she doesn't have a husband in jail on top of all of this.

Many of these details were in the newspaper. But not all of them. I'm privy to this incredible story because I visit teach Red's mother, and I've tutored Red on several occasions. (It was Red's mother who made the Jedi Master's adorable black and white starry fondant cake for his birthday.) This kind of thing never happens to people you know. Except when it does.

As the Relief Society President and I made our way over to Red's house the morning after this had all happened, I said to her, "I bet the handbook doesn't have any guidelines for THIS situation." I smiled slightly, trying to somehow help the mood of gloom we carried with us.

Very gravely, she replied, "You know, most of what the sisters go through has no easy answer. I never know what to do, really."

"When in doubt bake?" I smiled again.

She smiled this time too, and said that she had been talking about that very thing with her husband two nights previously because she often felt helpless against an onslaught of problems and that the best she could usually was throw a casserole at every difficulty. She perhaps expected her husband, not a member, to agree. Instead, he said, "But at least they know that you are thinking about them, that you care about them, and you are there if they need anything."

I took my turn throwing a casserole at this terrible situation--chicken enchiladas (which seemed a little chintzy so I also threw a big bag of greasy Frito's and a quart of strawberry vanilla ice cream)--as well as volunteering to do some tutoring for Red while she gets caught up in classes she was already struggling in. I spent some time talking with Red's mom when I took the food: we hugged and cried and talked with relief about how much worse it could have been and expressed gratitude for a community that works together. Today at church our Relief Society lesson was about service and the teacher talked about trying to get creative with our own talents and find ways to serve that only we could do. I knew I hadn't done much, but the lesson made me feel good about the service I'd rendered Red's family this week.

Then I spoke to Red's mom who told me she had dishes for me in the car. "How did you like it?" I said, with no real trepidation. I don't think I've ever taken anything that people weren't really complimentary about and my own family gobbled up the enchiladas, no problem. She replied, "Um, they were really spicy; the kids wouldn't really eat them. They gave me a stomach ache because I finally ate three of them when I could get enough sour cream on them." I smiled. I apologized. I felt helpless.

So it is okay to throw a casserole at a problem. Just not THAT casserole. And maybe not THAT problem.

Keeping It Real (Resolution Report #1)

You asked if I would post recipes for new things I tried. The one I will post today is kind of an old school LDS casserole, I think. But until two weeks ago, I'd only had this once. My VT brought if for me after I had Padawan. I think I ate nearly the whole pan all on my own, it was that yummy. I don't really use recipes, so hopefully the following will be helpful. This made a nice, full 8 x 8 pan:

Chicken Divan

* Put cooked rice in the bottom of your casserole pan. No, I don't know how much to use. I had leftover white rice; I probably used a cup and a half or so. When I make this again, I will probably use brown rice.

* Add a layer cooked chicken. I boiled two breasts and cut them up pretty small.

* Add a layer of barely-steamed broccoli. Because you will bake everything later, the broccoli will cook a little bit more so you want to pull it off the stove or out of your steamer somewhere between blanched and tender-crisp.

* Divan Sauce. Most of the recipes I've seen for this start with cream of chicken soup. I avoid cooking with canned soup whenever I can because it is so high in fat and sodium, so I made a white sauce instead with half broth and half milk. (App. 3 tbsp butter, 3 tbsp flour, and 3/4 cup each of broth and milk.) When the sauce is nice and thick, add curry powder (to taste; I used probably a whole tablespoon), lemon juice and a tablespoon of mayonaise. You may want to use some black pepper also.

* Pour sauce over rice, meat and broccoli and then cover the top with shredded cheddar (you don't need much.)

*Bake for 20 to 30 minutes (depending on if you put it in the oven warm or cold) at 350. I didn't cover it--the sauce keeps it moist and I like my cheese to get a little bit golden bubbly.

This is good and easy, though it does take some time because everything has to be pre-cooked. It is a good make ahead thing and will keep in the fridge for a couple of days uncooked if you need it to. I usually have all of the ingredients on hand as well. I will definitely make it gain.

I'm trying something else new on Sunday that is probably not as "safe" as this. I'll let you know how it goes.

I'm Starting to Hate the Word "Historic"

I've noticed over the last several years at General Conference, that the word "historic" is bandied about in a way that has me saying, "I do not think it means what you think it means." 150 years since the Saints entered the valley--historic. Oh, we built a behemoth conference center--historic. Oh, conference coincided with Easter, again--historic. Oh, we are remodeling the tabernacle--historic. Oh, there is a new apostle--historic. Oh, we are back in the Tabernacle--historic. Oh, so-and-so is the oldest living apostle born in the 20th century who is a sixth generation member at a conference falling precisely two weeks after the autumn equinox--historic. After all, if we say that every conference is remarkable or extraordinary or special then maybe what we are really saying is that none of them are?

Just an opinion.

The political frenzy of the last two years did not plateau in November. A woman garnering more primary votes than any defeated candidate ever--historic. Oh, and a woman from ALASKA on the ballot--historic. Oh, there is a white male on the ballot, wait, not historic; what was that? you said that he's the oldest man EVER to get on the ballot?--historic! Oh, and man from Hawaii on the. . . .wait, he's also Black! And biracial! And his middle name is Hussein--historic!

Every story in the first three pages of my newspaper this morning was about Obama. The pundits and reporters and bloggers and everybody who thinks their opinion is worth two shakes has foamed at the mouth in recent days about the import of what will happen tomorrow.

As fantastic as tomorrow will be, and indeed a day (or at least a very narrow window of time) that historians will point to the great change that took place in our country (historic!), I would argue that the real change, the truly remarkable thing, is not a single event or election or even a man.

Forty-six and a half years ago, a young Black preacher stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and called America to task for its failed promise, particularly to people of Color, but also to women and the poor. He told of his dream that his children would one day be judged for the content of their character and not the color of their skin. Barack Obama was two years old when this speech was given. I wonder what his mother and grandparents thought?

No doubt, the election was historic. Our economic times are historic. The war situation is historic. The inaugural speech will be historic. The money spent on the parties tomorrow will be historic.

But greater than history is the miracle that took place in the minds and the hearts of the people from 1963 to 2008. It took 45 years, but maybe, just maybe we have come to a place where we look a little bit more carefully on a man's heart because we have taken the time to try to listen and understand. It is no doubt that our modern world is an era of great wickedness, but it is also a time of great goodness. Remember when the Berlin Wall fell? It seemed to have happened all at once, almost overnight, but the reality is that the hearts and minds of the people had been building to the event for years. The same thing has happened in America. But the lesson of Eastern Europe is a powerful reminder for us as well: the work of bridging the divide between peoples of all colors and creeds is not at an end. Like the tearing down of that wall, this "historic" election is just a symbol of all that we've accomplished, and all that must still be done.

In the book of Exodus, we read of Moses' great leadership and journey. But the Israelites wandered a long time before entering the Promised Land. The Lord waited, at least in part, for many in the old generation--the generation who had known nothing but Egypt--to die. It was the younger generation who received the miracle.

It is hard for me to read MLK's writings and not believe that he was a prophet of sorts: no blasphemy meant here, of course, but when you listen to the last, spontaneous, minutes of his "I Have a Dream" speech you know that he was given the words to say by a higher power. And, he, with his great faith, would likely be the first to agree. He led America to the edge of the promised land and showed them what might be theirs. Forty-five years have passed. Maybe it will be up to our generation to enter this sacred place.

If I Blog About It, Then It Is Funny, Right?

Remember my post in December about my hyper-sensitive emotions that I was DEFINITELY going to get a handle on? And then the car wouldn't start. In the snow. Five miles from home. At four in the morning.

With me now? Good. Here is the latest installment in the cars-get-me-so-emotional saga.

After several more early morning rescues, we decided that enough was enough. Or at least I did. Plantboy, bless his heart, said he rather liked playing the role of knight in shining armor. It was a very cute thing to say, but as I don't really do damsel in distress too well, I finally called our friend the mechanic, and I stopped taking the car in the wee hours. (It seemed to only have a starting problem when a) the car got warmed up good or b) I started it.)

Our friend the mechanic. I have to admit to having a bit of a love/hate relationship here. Perhaps further reading will demonstrate.

A week and a half ago I called him. He did some work on our heater back in November, to great advantage on both sides. He had just been laid off and we were able to pay him much less than they charge for labor at a shop, while still paying him much more per hour than he actually earned when he was working. We arranged for him to come over last Friday at nine.

I waited until 10:30 and then called his house. "My daughter has been sick, and I haven't been feeling great. I think I've slept it off though. I'll be there in an hour."

11:30

12:30

1:30

At three I finally called. "Oh, yeah, I'm not going to make it today." He wanted to come Saturday, but I had committed to going to the temple with a friend and we were going to take my highly fuel efficient car--the starting problem was not an issue as we wouldn't be stopping and starting the car.

Famous last words.

Saturday morning I was over at my friend's house at about 7:10. We drove across town to the freeway; the heater seemed to be taking forever to work and our breath just kept fogging up the car. About ten miles up the road, there was a terrible knocking sound.

Moments later I smelled burned rubber. Asking my friend if she could smell it, she shook her head and said, "I do hear that knocking though."

I slowed slightly, wondering if the smell was coming from another car, but cars began passing very quickly and the smell stayed, "Oh, yeah, I smell it now!" She exclaimed. Before I could reply, the check engine light flashed, I slowed even more and then the panel lit up like the Fourth of July.

Pulling over, she offered to call her mechanic husband who is off working in the mountains somewhere. We explained the problem to him and he asked us to pop the hood. No can do. The gripper has come off the handle that pops it and all that is left is a sharpish piece of freezing cold, slippery metal sticking out of the dash down by my feet. We both gave it a good yank, nearly freezing our hands to it in the process. He started talking about belts and hoses and whatever and I felt the cold hand of despair creep in and grip my brain.

Did I mention that the heat had never properly come on? And we were in dresses, nylons, nice shoes, cute--not warm--coats. There was not a tool, a bottle of water or a blanket in the car. We called Plantboy who found the number of a towing company for us. My friend called her dad who came and sat with us for half and hour while we waited for the tow truck. We finally made it home at about 9 o'clock. Frozen and, me at least, very grouchy.

Towing bill: $138.

Mike the mechanic didn't return phone calls.

My friend and I decided to venture to the temple anyway. Plantboy is a saint. Saturday was only my friend's second trip to the temple and not going would have been, well, awful. She had been really cheerful and sweet about it all, but I could tell how disappointed she was. So we went.

And ran into Mike the Mechanic at the temple. "You must have missed Plantboy's message this morning?" I said with a bit of a forced smile. "Uh, yeah," he mumbled.

We also saw Mike at church on Sunday. Plantboy spoke with him. "Oh, I'll be over first thing tomorrow. How about eleven?" By what stretch of the imagination is eleven "first thing?" Still, a cheap mechanic is better than taking our chances at the typical rape-pillage-burn autoshop.

Monday comes. I wait until nearly one and then Plantboy calls. "Mike just got hold of me--he is sick." Ah . . .

Finally he comes on Tuesday at about noon. He runs an electrical check on the system. He also notes that a four-inch hose, hooked to the radiator, has come loose and the end of it is burned as if it touched a very hot part of the engine when it came loose. The starter was indeed bad.

New Starter: $140

Labor to Install Starter: $25

Plantboy and Mike jerry-rigged the hose with a bit of bailing twine. Mike's further assessment?

The radiator is old, the unit should probably be replaced.
The muffler is bad.
It's missing a headlight
And about ten other "little" things.

You know you are having a bad day when just repairing the car totals it.

Despite the muffler making it sound like I was trying to pimp out the Civic, I still drove it on the paper route Wednesday morning. About three stops into my route, the noise was so bad I was sure I would wake up all of my customers who love nothing more than to complain about how bad their service is. And then a cloud of smoke began billowing out from under the car.

Coughing and sputtering (me AND the car), I took it home at 4 o'clock and traded it for our more reliable piece of junk. At this point, I'm still thinking it is just a muffler problem.

I am just so stinking naive sometimes.

Plantboy took the car to work, stalling out through three different intersections. He called Midas and got an appointment for three. By four-thirty, I was looking anxiously out the window every few minutes, waiting for hubby's arrival. I had started to have a terrible sinking feeling that something was wrong.

The car arrived, parade style on a glorious yellow tow truck. Plant boy looked at me, shook his head and said, "I didn't have the heart to call you."

Towing bill: $48

Apparently when we drove it again, some water, from the exploded radiator went through the exhaust system and whosy whatsit yada yada there is a problem with the head gasket.

That doesn't sound so bad.

Well, the part itself is not, only the entire engine has to practically be pulled out to fix it. Midas told Plantboy it was 7 hours of labor just to get to the thing and that he was looking at least $1500. Oh, and another $300 for the radiator. Oh, and we won't TOUCH that muffler without the other repairs done first. The muffler is around $160.

Enter Mike again.

He recommended the second towing and then came over yesterday to get the car. I guess he drove it back to his house, though I'm thinking it might have been a better trip for him if he had just pushed the damn thing.

Anyway the car is at his house now, with the engine practically removed.

New head-gasket thingy: Lowballed at $160.

Labor: No idea yet.

Oh, and yeah, the radiator is really going to have to be done now. I'm halfway considering just putting it up on blocks in the front yard and going for the full redneck. Does anybody know how to get your car nice and rusty in a really short amount of time?

To add insult to injury, I don't think I've seen the sun more than a few minutes in the last three weeks. In one of the Harry Potter books they describe wet, foggy, cold, dreary weather as what happens when the Dementors are breeding. I think it is safe to say the Dementors are breeding.

You know, it doesn't feel very funny at all. In fact, I feel slightly nauseous. I think I'll go lie down.

What Do YOU Think About?

First of all, thanks to all who commented on the last post. I responded to several of you there and would still love more ideas, so if you have anything to add that would be helpful.

There is an anecdote I read somewhere about Sister Hinckley that involves just about the best piece of advice a young woman could ever get. Her granddaughter was fretting a bit over what to study at university. Sister Hinckley told her to study anything but homemaking. When her granddaughter asked why, after all, it would likely be the most useful thing since she was really wanting to be a wife and a mother, the prophet's wife replied, "So that when you are doing the ironing you'll be able to think about something else." The granddaughter took the advice to heart and studied English literature. When she irons, she thinks of Shakespeare's sonnets and her grandmother.

I think that is really lovely.

Too often, stay-at-home-momming feels a bit like I've become a full-time expert at a lot of tasks I really hate. But tonight I had a moment of remembering who I was before all that.

While doing the dishes, I ran some water in a greasy pan I had tipped up slightly. The water pooled in the pan and the grease sat lightly on the top. I put a single drop of soap in the pan, but instead of scrubbing it into bubbles and watching them wash away quickly, I watched the drop of soap touch the edge of the greasy water and scatter the sheen from the top. For a moment I thought about the unique properties of water because of its chemical structure. I thought about surface tension and soap's ability to break that tension, allowing it to be effective against the grease. I thought about hydrophobic and hydrophillic molecules. I thought about the covalent bond that holds the amazing, simple, and perfect water molecule together.

Mostly I breathed a sigh of relief that such information--useless in many ways, but fascinating to me--still resides in my head; and that, perhaps more importantly, I can recall it.

So what fascinating thing do YOU think about when you do the dishes or the ironing or the laundry or the whatever household task needs imagination to get through?

You Can Do What?

Yesterday, the Enrichment Counselor and I were holding a meeting at my house, brainstorming ideas for our March birthday meeting.* Though there wasn't must to discuss, I had been kind of putting off the meeting because no matter what we do, it takes two hours. This is not necessarily a bad thing: she is a very good friend and we really enjoy each other's company.

We often schedule our meeting for a time when my baby is napping and I put on a movie for Padawan while we meet. But Padawan didn't ask for a movie, instead wanting the Lincoln Logs down from the shelf. I agreed reluctantly. Not so much for the mess, but because Padawan doesn't know how to build with them and I was worried I'd end up on the floor the whole time we were meeting, just trying to keep him entertained and happy. Our set of logs has a set of train tracks with it, and I noted that he was able to quickly put together the tracks. Pleasantly surprised, I thought, "This won't be so bad after all. He can at least play with the train."

Just as our meeting stretched to about 90 minutes, Padawan, who had only been playing about ten feet away from me this whole time, came up and quietly and tugged at my sleeve. "Look what I did, Mommy."

It reminds me of the time when Jedi Master, who was barely two at the time, peered at my "Utah State University Alumni" window cling in the back of the car and started singing the alphabet song--which I didn't recall having ever sung to him before. It is so easy to forget how quickly they soak up information and intently they pay attention when you are in the middle of wiping bums, reminding them to pick up and shouting at them to get their fingers out of their noses.

While the camera was still out, I had to have a picture of the baby who just got up from his nap. YES, that is STILL a bottle. He only gets one when he wakes up, and right before bed. He drinks out of a sippy cup pretty well even, but this provides a great deal of comfort. My other kiddos weaned themselves, but this little guy seems quite determined to break any mold I have experience with. The Youngling mostly seems good at growing curls, squealing, hitting or biting his brothers, tackling anything that will hold still and complaining about what I make for every meal.

And in a rather unrelated note (though I guess the title is about what you are good at), I need to show off my latest scrapbook pages. Scrapbooking mamas tend to get a bit of a bad rap, being turned, I have to say, negative or at least ridiculous stereotypes of Mormon women. I know a bit about unfair profiling: I was a sister missionary, remember? Anyway, here are the pages. I love to just find the perfect paper for the perfect photos and start from scratch. My cheat here is that I copied the layout from one that I saw and really liked. These were taken three winters ago in Logan.

* Our theme is around the idea of realizing your potential as an Eight Cow Woman. Can anybody suggest any classes that might be relevant to them? Either things you want to learn that I can fudge into the theme or things that are interesting and relate to your divine potential? Any suggestions at all would be great. I mean, any POSITIVE suggestions would be great. If you want to suggest just scrapping the whole Enrichment program, then just keep it to yourself. That's all.

Stealing An Idea From Everyone: The Dreaded Resolutions

I actually did pretty good on my goals list last year. I accomplished five of the ten. (That's pretty good? I'm thinking like baseball batting average here more than letter grades with my 50%.) One of the ten was something I thought I wanted to do but have since changed my mind, as for the other four, well, I did do SOME work on them, but more is needed.

Nem read something about making anti-resolutions instead of resolutions. It is an interesting idea. I think I'll do five of each this year.

Resolutions
1. I will read my scriptures over breakfast each morning and before doing any other reading for the day. (I'm starting this one tomorrow.)

2. I will spend at least 15 minutes daily reading to my baby. (He gets left by the wayside on the reading, because he doesn't really like the books the big kids want. He can't sit still for them. Which of course means that the less often he is read to, the harder it is for him to sit still.)

3. I will cook one new recipe each month. (This isn't something I'm super keen on, but I am attempting to keep Plantboy from dying of boredom, something I'm very keen on. Also, he has begun to count carbs so some of my favorite standbys will have to be scrapped or modified.)

4. I will continue reading my stack of classics, though I might quit with "The Wings of the Dove" and try instead "The Agony and Ecstasy." (What is the deal with Henry James anyway?)

5. Plantboy and I will find a way to get our 10th anniversary trip. (Even if it is not over our anniversary; even if it is not to our dream location; and even if it means that we don't get much of a family vacation also.)

Anti-resolutions
1. I will not count down until my time as Enrichment Leader has been served, nor will I grumble about my calling. (Except for maybe on my blog when something might slip sometime.)

2. I will not stop writing. (Regardless of rejection, exhaustion, futility or dried up imagination.)

3. I will not use the line of credit on my checking account even once this year. (I'll use the credit card instead of the debit card when I don't have enough money. Kidding. . . .)

4. I will not spend more than one hour in any given day between Blogger and Facebook. (I'm sure I'll find other meaningless black holes in which to throw my time. Freecell comes to mind.)

5. I will not let distance keep me from attending the temple at least once each quarter. (I'll find other excuses.)

I think I'm going to put the text of this post into a sidebar. Just in the interest of keeping myself honest. They say to post goals on your mirror, but all you would have to do is look at me lately to know that I spend WAY more time on blogger than in front of the mirror. (And who are "they" anyway?)

Stealing An Idea From Slim: Our 2008 Top Ten

This is the attachment I'm sending out on my email this week. If you get the e-mail, sorry for the repeat. And if you are a regular here, you might see a couple of anecdotes already told. Sorry about that.

Dear Family and Friends,

When we moved to Eugene in 2007, I told Plantboy the one thing I wanted was an entire calendar year without any major life changes--no new jobs, moves or babies. So, for Christmas, I got exactly what I wanted. 2008 was free from any huge decisions or disruptions. Plantboy, however, probably did NOT get what he wanted for Christmas. I'm sure his dream gift would involve some sort of unlimited shopping spree at REI. But if you think that 2008 was also a quiet year, then you have never lived in a house with three little boys.

Some years back, a good friend of mine started sending out her family's top ten funny moments each Christmas. I love this hilarious substitution to a "traditional" newsletter. I feel like I really know her family through their foibles and moments. It is also a great way to keep track of all those funny things your kids do and say while they are young. So here are our top ten moments of 2008.

1. In early January, STM learned that a skiff of snow or even the rumor of a freeze would cause school to be cancelled. This knowledge was painfully remembered again last week when a tiny (by Utah standards) snowstorm rocked our part of the Pacific Northwest and closed school for a good chunk of the week. Instead of a two week Christmas Break, it is now more like three weeks. Already Jedi Master looks at me with glazed over eyes when I mention the word "homework." January 6th is going to be like starting from scratch.

2. When the baby started getting mobile, STM realized that he was spending a lot of time in a certain corner of the house. She also realized that several small items had gone missing. In that particular corner, there is a small hole left over from a cable hookup we are not using. The Youngling was using the hole to hide any treasures he happened to find. This pack-rat-like behavior somehow earned him the name "snickerdoodle."

3. In March Jedi Master said, "I'm so glad for the spring break. I've been working so hard this year; I just really need a break, Mommy." He should do very well in college.

4. In July we traveled to Utah for the biannual family reunion. We stayed with STM's parents for a few days before meeting Plantboy's family in Bear Lake. The first morning, Padawan jumped on Grandpa Gus's bed to wake him up. Grandpa sat up and gave him a kiss. Padawan made a terrible face, wiped the kiss off and said, "Grandpa! That was a HORRRRRIBLE kiss!" Grandma Joanie laughed so hard I thought she'd fall off the bed. I guess she knows about Grandpa's morning kisses.

5. While in Bear Lake, we decided to go to Minnetonka cave. The pamphlet said it was something like 300 stairs. No problem. After about 8 slippery stairs, Padawan stopped and said "Mommy, it is too scary." So STM scooped him up and carried him the remaining 298. That was just going down. Grandpa and STM tag-teamed him coming back up, emerging into the bright sunlight completely out of breath. Padawan got to his feet, pretending to breathe heavy and said, "Boy mommy, I need a drink! That was sure hard work!"

6. October was the year's most eventful month. Early in the month, Jedi Master and his mom sat down to plan his birthday party. It was, of course, to be a Star Wars themed event. Jedi Master said, "We could have everyone dress up like their favorite character and bring their light sabers. Then we could have a huge light saber fight." I'm not sure which is funnier--that he honestly believes that each of his friends has a Star Wars costume AND light saber, or that a brawl was a good party activity.

7. For Halloween, we got "booed." This is when a neighbor secretly brings a goodie to eat and ghost poster to hang up in your window. You are then to "boo" two or three others in the neighborhood to keep it moving. Excitedly, we made our treats and took a walk around the block after dark. It was fun to be so sneaky. Just as we left our last drop, Jedi Master said, "This is a really fun prank. But instead of a leaving a goodie next year . . . " he trailed off and nodded, "I think we should throw bricks."

8. The parents came home in November from a date to find the babysitter literally surrounded by kids wielding Nerf guns and light sabers. She looked at them, raised her eyebrows and said drily, "Apparently I'm beginning my Jedi Training next week."

9. The Youngling doesn't talk. At least not English, anyway. But any time he picks up a light saber or a stick or a untensil, he swings it around making light saber noises. He also holds his hand like a gun and makes shooting noises while laughing. How he can be the sweetest and the meanest at the same time is a mystery.

10. Instead of "cut it out!" when someone is bothering him, Padawan says, "Cut if off!" Hm . . . . even with correction he hasn't really changed his phrase. So what, exactly, does he want the offending party to "cut off?" The world may never know.